Vanavond de VRT zeer goed in het oog houden
 

kind of hunger. It might be
twenty-four hours since he had eaten, it might be thirty-six. He still did
not know, probably never would know, whether it had been morning or evening
when they arrested him. Since he was arrested he had not been fed.
He sat as still as he could on the narrow bench, with his hands
crossed on his knee. He had already learned to sit still. If you made
unexpected movements they yelled at you from the telescreen. But the
craving for food was growing upon him. What he longed for above all was a
piece of bread. He had an idea that there were a few breadcrumbs in the
pocket of his overalls. It was even possible -- he thought this because
from time to time something seemed to tickle his leg -- that there might be
a sizeable bit of crust there. In the end the temptation to find out
overcame his fear; he slipped a hand into his pocket.
'Smith!' yelled a voice from the telescreen. '6079 Smith W! Hands out
of pockets in the cells!'
He sat still again, his hands crossed on his knee. Before being
brought here he had been taken to another place which must have been an
ordinary prison or a temporary lock-up used by the patrols. He did not know
how long he had been there; some hours at any rate; with no clocks and no
daylight it was hard to gauge the time. It was a noisy, evil-smelling
place. They had put him into a cell similar to the one he was now in, but
filthily dirty and at all times crowded by ten or fifteen people. The
majority of them were common criminals, but there were a few political
prisoners among them. He had sat silent against the wall, jostled by dirty
bodies, too preoccupied by fear and the pain in his belly to take much
interest in his surroundings, but still